THE FISHING HOLE

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It's de spo't I's lookin' aftah. Hit's de pleasure an' de fun,

Dough I knows dat Lizy's waitin' wid de skillet w'en

I's done.

-Paul Lawrence Dunbar.

From "Complete Poems," Dodd, Mead & Co.

THE FISHING HOLE

I know a dandy place to fish,
The kind of place that makes you wish
There never was no work er school,
An' all you had to do was fool
Around all day with line an' pole
An' pull 'em out of that there hole.

The Crick is swifter there a lot
But, to one side, there is a spot
Among the boulders by the hill,
An' there the water's always still.
There water-beetles like to ride
An' there is where the big ones hide.

A bunch of spruce an' cedar grows
Beside the fishin' hole an' throws
Its shade across that little pool
An' keeps it always dark an' cool
The hottest days-I tell you what
There ain't no better fishin' spot!

An' all you need is just a fly
An' keep it sort of driftin' by
So it will ketch the fishes' eyes
An', jiminy, how they will rise!
There ain't no place on all the crick
The big ones seems to be so thick.

The poorest fisherman, I guess,
Could go up there an' git a mess;
An' all you need is line an' pole
To pull 'em out of that there hole.
What's that? Where is it?

-Well,

You needn't think I'm goin' to tell!

-Douglas Malloch.

THE DYING FISHERMAN

Once a fisherman was dying in his humble, lowly cot, and the pastor sat beside him saying things that hit the spot, so that all his futile terrors left the dying sinner's heart, and he said: "The journey's lonely, but I'm ready for the start. There is just one little matter that is fretting me,' he sighed, "and perhaps I'd better tell it ere I cross the Great Divide. I have got a string of stories that I've told from day to day; stories of the fish I've captured, and the ones that got away, and I fear that when I tell them they are apt to stretch a mile; and I wonder when I'm wafted to that land that's free from guile, if they'll let me tell my stories if I try to tell them straight, or will angels

BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH

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lose their tempers then, and chase me through the gate?" Then the pastor sat and pondered, for the question vexed him sore; never such a weird conundrum had been sprung on him before. Yet the courage of conviction moved him soon to a reply, and he wished to fill the fisher with fair visions of the sky: "You can doubtless tell fish stories," said the clergyman, aloud, "but I'd stretch them very little if old Jonah's in the crowd." -Walt Mason.

From "Walt Mason: His Book," Barse & Hopkins.

BALLADE OF THE GAMEFISH "Only the gamefish swims upstream."

-Colonel John Trotwood Moore.

Where the puddle is shallow, the weakfish stay
To drift along with the current's flow;
To take the tide as it moves each day

With the idle ripples that come and go;
With a shrinking fear of the gales that blow

By distant coasts where the Great Ports gleam; Where the far heights call through the silver glow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream.'

Where the shore is waiting, the minnows play,

Borne by the current's undertow;

Drifting, fluttering on their way,

Bound by a fate that has willed it so;

In the tree-flung shadows they never know

How far they have come from the old, brave dream; Where the wild gales call from the peaks of snow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream."

Where the tide rolls down in a flash of spray
And strikes with the might of a bitter foe,
The shrimp and the sponge are held at bay

Where the dusk winds call and the sun sinks low; They call it Fate in their endless woe

As they shrink in fear when the wild hawks scream From the crags and crests where the great thorns grow, "Only the gamefish swims upstream."

Held with the current the Fates bestow,

The driftwood moves to a sluggish theme, Nor heeds the call which the Far Isles throw, "Only the gamefish swims upstream."

-Grantland Rice.

Permission of the Author. From "The Sportlight."

FISHIN'

Don't ye talk to me of work!
I'm jest goin' fishin'

Where the speckled beauties lurk,

Round the pools a-swishin'.
Ne'er a thought have I of care,
Settin' on a green bank there,
Drinkin' in the soft June air,
Void of all ambition!

I don't care much what I ketch,
Long as I am anglin'.

What I carry, what I fetch,

On my string a-danglin'.

FISHIN'

Makes no difference to me-
Some or none, whiche'er it be-
While I'm off there wholly free

From all scenes of wranglin'.

Fishin' ain't jest ketchin' fish
In a pond or river-
Though a fresh trout on a dish
Makes ye sort o' shiver-
Fishin's settin' on some spot
Where it's neither cold ner hot,
Without thinkin' on your lot—
Fortune, love, or liver.

Fishin's gettin' far away

From all noise and flurry;
Gettin' off where you can play
Nothin's in a hurry;

There to sort o' loaf, and set,
Blind to all the things that fret,
And forgettin' all regret,

Quarrils, cares, and worry.

Yessir! I'll give up ambition,

And fer fame and fortune wishin'

Any day to go a-fishin'!

-John Kendrick Bangs.

From "The Foothills of Parnassus," The Macmillan Co.

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